


Carved in ice

by loewen_grube



Category: Paladins: Champions Of The Realm (Video Game)
Genre: Dire Wolf Tyra, F/F, Game of Thrones AU, Gen, Ice Walker Inara, idek i think the skins count as an au thing?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loewen_grube/pseuds/loewen_grube
Summary: The land beyond the Wall has been treacherous for those who choose to survive against its elements, and the threat of the ice walkers loom as they march south to the wall.Game of Thrones AU, based off Dire Wolf Tyra and Ice Walker Inara.





	1. howling of icy winds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Paladins Headcanons](https://paladinsheadcanons.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! It got... a little too long for the blog. I'm Mod Ash there! >3
> 
> I... guess this is a Game of Thrones AU? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyra has been continuously walking for days through the snowy storms of the lands beyond the Wall, injured and feeling too close to death for comfort, and all she wants right now is to pray.

It had been a while since Tyra has seen anyone.

Attempting to count the days or the steps feels almost like a chore; all she can tell is that she has been walking for so long that stopping felt wrong, and ever since the attack on the settlement she hasn’t stopped running and walking, with nothing but her rifle as well as whatever small things she can grab. Her rifle has always been on her grip ever since her trek back south and it served as her only comfort if ever someone attacks her.

That is, if it’s a  _person._

 _It's been days_ , she tells herself. She breathes, slow and labored, seeing mists flutter up with every exhale.  _Those walkers are dumb as rocks, they won’t go after me specifically._ So many things have happened that she is rather certain she would just return to a sea of her friends walking from the icy grave if she ever tries to look for anyone in the old settlement--

 _No._  She shakes her head.  _They’re alive. She’s alive, they’re alive. I just have to find them._  Regret and shame sits uncomfortably at her belly, wishing she died back in the attack earlier instead of waking up in agonizing pain in a snowfield with no one familiar in sight except for the burning pile of timbers that used to be their home. The ice walkers showed up without warning, and with little preparation, nothing worked against them. The blur of events felt like a hazy dream – the sound of bullets, swords, an ice-clad figure raising their stave in attack, and a familiar voice telling her to flee--

 _Not now._ Hands tighten the grip around her rifle as the ever-present wall draws almost an inch closer.  _Not now._ The sound her boots make against the snow seems to be the only thing breaking the monotonous gusts of passing snowstorm winds whizzing past her, every inch of her leather armor feeling like they've been crusted solid in snow.

There is also the concern of her wounds. The temperature seems enough for her to ignore her injuries. It's stopped bleeding. She couldn't tell if it's because it's getting better or it's because her blood's starting to freeze. Either way, it was still a pain she cannot ignore.

As the snowstorm dies down, she feels the sunlight and what little warmth it provides, going down south for the wall.

She clutches her rifle closer, feeling the tattered leather grip against her fingers. It feels like her only comfort right now. She's never been nearby the wall in the twenty and so years of her being alive, but its gigantic, looming presence has always been a part of the view in any settlement she has ever been in. But it seems to be the only place that seems worth a shot, as there is nothing up north but ghosts of the past.

She continues her trek, her body feeling heavier by the second as fatigue begins to set in and her wounds seem to never stop hurting. Though, if she were to be honest, there are only two things she'd like right now.

One's to be able to find a weirwood, and maybe then she can pray and ask whatever cruel gods are out there for guidance. A question. A conversation. _Anything._ She could ask why the watchwoman of all people has to be the one taken from her so soon. She could ask why they didn't just kill her outright. She could ask why in all seven hells did she have to suffer through it. She could almost hear the gods sneer and laugh at her predicament.

Second would be a huge tankard of ale. If she's not dying right now, she could definitely use a drink.

But her steps lead her closer to the ever-looming Wall. She could almost feel the air thicken as her steps have grown slower, the snow curling around her boots thickening that it feels like trekking through thick syrup. A forest begins to wrap around her as she approaches the Wall, and her pace quickens as she finally see red leaves stand out from the pines.

The red leaves of the weirwood come to view just as the wall towers over her. She has never been this near to the Wall, if she is to be honest. But she just wants some guidance, a sign, a prayer… or at the very least, comfort that the Gods guide her upon her end. 

It felt almost like a relief as she knelt by the weirwood. She felt like she has not sat down or stopped walking for days, and she almost felt her body give out as she knelt, losing all focus on things she wanted to say, before focusing her thoughts and clasping her hands in prayer. So much effort was placed for her to not collapse, as she straightens her posture. 

 _This is the gods' home_ , she tells herself,  _and I have to be respectful_. She takes off the simple crown upon her head and what braids were left in her hair, trying to comb out the tangled frozen mess, before presenting everything she could take off of her body aside from her armor, a prayer for each one.

Her rifle. A marvel of technological beauty, now useless against enemies she cannot fight. It has guided her through several battles, but bullets don't do much against the dead. For the first time in days, she takes her grip off the handle, and sets it down, praying she doesn’t use it anytime soon.

A hilt of a dagger. The blade is broken, but there's still bits of its original dragon glass blade that remains. It makes an odd sound as she carefully takes it off the tattered holster, wishing that no undead comes her or any of her comrades that have survived the attack before putting it back in.

A tiara. It is a simple wide band of metal, a handmade gift from the watchwoman who quickly fashioned it out of broken sword shards she found from somewhere. The huntress has no idea what has happened to her. She silently prays for her well-being, and maybe a day where they can see each other again, before sweeping her hair back to put it back on her forehead.

Her furcoat.  It is what has remained of the direwolf she has slain years back. For some reason it provides her little warmth now. She pays it no mind as she pats off the snow and puts it back on and hopes for a hunt worthier for a coat, if she ever survives through this.

Her drinking horn. It was not meant for drinking, but she’s filled it with the rum the watchwoman has given her. She takes a sip, feeling the strange warmth crawl down her body, wishing she’s heard more of the watchwoman’s stories, before spilling half of it on the foot of the weirwood as an offering.

The huntress softly calls for someone, anyone, for guidance, a sign… or at the very least, a quick ending. . But that is to be expected. Sometimes the gods are not swift. Sometimes they relish on the suffering of mortals.

Tyra smiles, before collapsing by the weirwood, feeling a wave of relief as the snow seems to embrace her. It was quite the fate. But she couldn’t bring it upon herself to let the cold embrace of death take her, and she straightens herself weakly to lean by the weirwood as she watches the forest edge in with thick fog--

_Wait._

_Something’s looming from the distance._

The huntress cannot find it in her to stand up. She’s been walking for so long, running for so long… something like this should get her back up and running. A haze has settled in her chest, fatigue building up, legs feeling like they had more weight on them than anything else. The looming figure comes closer by the weirwood, and the figure takes form, but she cannot put words on whoever just came closer.

The figure was silent. They watch her by the weirwood, as if they are also offering their prayers, before they come closer and look down on Tyra. The figure was the first person she has seen in days, and so she smiles, but it took her a while to realize that the figure was, indeed, a person of some form, because the figure spoke with a voice fitting something emerging from the fog.

"Have your gods given you any comfort?"

The voice almost surprised her. Tyra attempts to figure out if her eyes were tricking her, and looks up to the voice to focus on the figure.

The person… didn’t seem _human_. They look like she is sculpted and carved straight from varying colors of ice, and so she was rather unsettled as the woman seemingly born from ice came closer, stave in hand and eyes as dark as the night piercing straight at her.

"No." It's been a while since she last spoke to anyone, and the answer sounded like a croak. She clears her throat and attempts to speak softly. "But it is not up to me to decide what they give me."

The woman blinks. Unfazed. Like she has asked this several times in the past. She looks at the huntress like death herself. "Then why do you stay?"

Tyra has no real answer. It’s merely because she has worshipped the Old Gods ever since she had lived and known how to kneel, and she has no real reason to stray from their guidance. "It's hard to stray away from tradition," she says.

The woman did not seem satisfied with her response. Tyra can feel the winds stop, but the cold felt more piercing as the woman takes a look at the items she had laid out in front of the weirwood. Watching her felt like a dream, like time just stopped. The winds have stilled, and she felt more light-headed than exhausted, watching the woman inspect the drinking horn she has laid beside the rifle. She is not certain why she is letting her do this. But someone to talk to is nice, at least before her inevitable end. 

The woman inspects the rifle. It is still a rather strange weapon for other free folk, and so the huntress was expecting a strange reaction, but the woman looks at it like she’s seen many like it before. “You’re one of the free folk,” the woman says, as if reaching a conclusion. “What are you doing so near the Wall?”

Tyra says nothing for a few moments, before settling in for a vague reply. “I… got separated.” It had a vein of truth with it. She woke up alone, and her friends might have assumed she had passed, if they are still alive. The more she tries to remember, the details get vaguer by the second.

The ice woman seems curious, but she does not ask any more. She raises her stave, like she is setting down judgment, but she doesn’t as she leans it against the wood to free her hands, bending down to prop the huntress up further against the weirwood. Her hands are horridly cold and a thousand blizzards cannot compare to it, and the huntress winces against her touch.

“I apologize for your loss,” the woman says softly. Though attempting to be gentle, Tyra felt no sympathy in her voice. Is this how other non-humans show mercy? The ice woman does not seem human, but there’s a small hint of an effort…

She laughs weakly. “Like you had a part in it.”

The woman laughs, seemingly amused. “I am but someone travelling to the wall, after all.”

The woman lets go, and Tyra feels herself relax, somehow both at ease and in pain, still feeling her wounds torment her. She watches the woman pick up her stave, icicles floating around it. “How so…?”

The woman didn’t answer her. Tyra is not sure if she has not heard, but the ice woman turns to the direction of the wall, looking at where it stops way up the sky. She tries to peer into where she is looking, the wall being hundreds of feet tall, but she relents and observes the woman instead, icicles dancing around her and her scarf blowing and floating against the non-existent wind, the howl of distant winds filling the silence.

She cannot tell if she is dreaming, for someone like her to exist. She cannot tell if she still feels anything other than a cold peace, as she watches the dark ice on her armor seemingly shift against the light, as she watches the woman watch what seems to be a hurdle on her adventure. Tyra is certain – she is not human. She doesn’t know what she is, and she has not seen anything like her before.

The huntress shifts her position by the weirwood so as she can observe her more thoughtfully. The snow seems to have embraced her, and if she isn’t fatigued and in pain, she’d be glad to stay like this for a while.

The woman turns to her, and smiles, as if pitying her. Tyra almost forgot why she is here by the weirwood, but any attempt to remember is lost.

The ice woman looks back at her, and pauses, like she noticed something wrong. “Oh, little one… are you afraid?”

Is she? She’s come to peace with her situation, after all. She weakly shakes her head. “…no.”

“How so?”

“I’ve accepted my fate.” The answer comes out faster and softer than she expected it. But she is being surprisingly sincere. “That’s why I’m here. My final prayer is to the weirwood.”

“The free folk finds honor in dying in combat. Why have you not died with the others?”

There seemed something odd with the woman’s bluntness, but she paid it no mind. Sometimes subtlety is lost with stranger creatures and people. “…I wish I know.” She exhales, feeling the air go slightly warmer, a strange relief washing over her. “There are people I’d love to die with… But gods are cruel.”

The woman laughs. “Indeed we are.”

_...What?_

She struggles to gain bearing of her situation. She pulls her rifle and drinking horn close, feeling like offering whatever she have to the weirwood is the least of her concerns. “Why are _you_ here? I suppose you’re here to laugh at my demise…?”

“Perhaps.” The woman takes the huntress’s hand, and Tyra immediately wants to pull away – the woman’s hands feel like the cold of all the blizzards she have ever experienced has come to torment her once more, however her grip seems too tight, and she does not seem willing to let go, and she is not hiding her discomfort. “The cold has taken many in the weirwood like you soon will be. It is not as terrifying.”

“I’ve lived here all my life and I just saw everything taken from me by the ice walkers.” She chuckles, trying to ignore the sharp sting of the cold against her hand as the ice woman tightens her grip ever so slightly, before prying her hands off with the best her strength can allow. The ice woman did not seem to care. “I think I know what this place can do.”

And the woman laughs. It sounded strange, but she laughs, genuinely deep and sounding rather amused—

_Wait._

Realization hits her.

She’s never told her about the attack. She finds her familiar, on many ways, even though she is sure she has never seen her before.

She has felt this thick cold haze before.

She was at the settlement earlier.

_The thick fog._

_The stillness of time._

_The sharp sting of frostbite._

_The voice as ominous as the winter fog._

Tyra curses under her breath.

_How can… how could I forget so easily?_

Her hand slowly finds the hilt of her broken dagger. It is not a full blade, she realizes, and cannot do much damage as a result. But _anything_ is better than nothing. She straightens up, feeling her legs almost give up instantly, but anger and adrenaline fuels her strength as she finally towers over the ice woman.

The woman is not her friend. She is not a god, either. She knew it from the beginning; she should have known it from the beginning. No god will stoop so low as to insult a dying woman on her last breaths.

The broken dragonglass shines in the dull, even light of the winter storms, slowly growing in prominence. Tyra’s breath quickens. She has found a new strength. Her wounds and her body ache in every inch she attempts to move, but she pays it no mind as she attempts to stand up, trying to hide the broken dagger from the woman.

“You say you’ve seen many fall by the weirwood.” She clenches her teeth. She wants to be correct. Anger and bitter resentment fuels her as she speaks. “What… what did you mean?”

“The cold takes many.” The woman straightens up, eyes like the void. “Especially on its march for domination. You are no exception to it, as well as many other free folk like you.”

“I’ve seen so many of my friends fight against the ice walkers, only to perish…” she murmurs, the odd silence of the forest permeating in the winter fog that settles around them. A few more moments pass before she speaks. “The ice walkers took someone important to me. She fought so hard, and all she calls for was for my safety. I wished we parted under different circumstances…”

“You do know it is pointless to struggle,” the woman says. “The cold takes everything in its path.”

“The cold takes everything in the path _you_ take, it seems.” Her posture is weak, her focus off. Her rifle slung over her shoulder, the grip on the dagger tightens. “She’s the leader of their vanguard here to the North, and they meant no harm. All they wanted to do is to help. How can you just decide any one of them deserved it?”

She shrugs, not denying anything. “She was nothing but anger. The watchwoman deserved it.”

_I’ve never told her she was from the Watch._

Tyra straightens up, weakly but fully standing up. The ice woman watches her as she rises and picks up her items, and the huntress can see her tense up and tighten her grip on her stave.

“You’re… you’re right. Maybe she deserved it.” Her speech is slow, slurred, but she makes her message clear. “But I don’t care. I don’t think you did, either.”

The icicles dancing around the woman suddenly moved in a pattern, and they seem to stand in attention on her presence and speech. She breathes slowly, trying to hold back the bitter anger dancing around her chest, settling in on her will, trying to push her to do it already, just _kill her already--_

“I change my mind,” Tyra says, finally brandishing the dagger, glass blade broken and edges jagged. “I’m not the one dying tonight.”

“Surely a mortal like you or your _beloved_ watchwoman is—“

The sharp edge of the broken glass pierces her before she finishes her sentence, right at where a human’s gut should be. Time seems to slow as the woman looks down at the dagger, as if it is not supposed to be there, and Tyra herself seems surprised about all of this as her eyes widen in the spectacle.

It was strange and invigorating, like a fire is burning in her. It looked rather strange to stand back and pull the dagger away, her hands wet and her blade dripping in ice-cold water. The woman struggles as water seems to slowly drip down her wound, making shiny, wet tracks down her black ice armor. The woman was mostly silent, but the way she clutches the wound is proof enough that it is a major injury, as wet, cold hands attempt to scramble around and straighten up to compose herself once more.

For some reason, tears start to well up in her eyes, a culmination of all her fatigue and anger settling in her stomach.

She has no words. The void that is her eyes stare back at the huntress, silence around them except for the howl of the cold winds around her.  The woman still manages to utter out a few words as she attempts to straighten up to confront the huntress, weight leaning against her stave, icicles in an odd dance around her. “Nothing… nothing of this world can kill me.”

That much is true, Tyra thought. It is not a whole blade; it cannot do much damage to the ice woman who is now bleeding water in front of her. A broken dragonglass dagger cannot do much to avenge the multitude of people who died after this woman and her whole slew of ice walkers had paraded through their settlement and killed everyone just to pass by.

Tyra can feel her anger settle in the gusts of snowstorms that slowly builds up. If she can, she will do it again. She will draw her blade and kill her, right here, right now; she will end all of this, for everyone that died, for the watchwoman—

But all she has is a broken dagger. She smiles. It may be a mockery of this woman, whoever she is, as her wound disintegrates further, wound becoming more apparent as ice melts down to water.

She had the energy for another stab, as she raises the blade to pierce the ice woman’s heart this time, if she had one. Rage boils down in her, mixing with the energy of her adrenaline, and she cannot even tell when she turned to leave, continuing her trek back to the wall, pace faster than ever.

She couldn’t remember if she died. She couldn’t remember what the woman said. She could not think of anything else, except for the persistent desire to rest.

I cannot stop now, she says to herself.

She has never run so fast. She knows it’s impossible for the woman to recover quickly after that, but she can feel the adrenaline course through her veins, this time feeling like she is the one being hunted. Winds begin howling behind her as her pace quickens to the wall, breath turning short and pain returning, like time has just resumed. Emotions swirl around her chest, the sensation of false victory and achievement mixing like a badly made drink, but she has no time to celebrate nor revel in the fact that she has somehow avenged the death of many of her friends as she flees the forest and leaves the weirwood and the woman to her fate.

If she is to live, the horde of ice walkers follow her for sure. That is not something a wounded, dying woman can beat, and despite only getting a few moments of rest, her pace is quick as she continues her run to the wall, distance feeling farther and farther as her breath quickens and her wounds seem to intensify.

The wall comes close, the gate several times taller than her coming into view. She slams her fists against it repeatedly, calling for someone. _Anyone._ The storm behind her looms and loudens, and she prays once more as the gate finally lifts, and she was only able to take a few steps in before she falls to the ground in fatigue, breaths short and vision blurring.

This time, she realizes that she did not want to die.

At least, she wants to see someone before that happens.  

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you becoming a watchwoman too?” The voice of the watchwoman she has become close with was the first thing she hears. “You know, we need someone like you here. Things are not so good with the walkers. You’re one of the most capable warriors I know, and I just… I’d love it if you stay.”

Tyra’s heart almost jumps when she hears it, feeling warmth and love almost in every inch. She could almost ignore the fact that she’s dying. But many several other things and questions add to the pile. Why is she here? Isn’t she dead? Why is all this happening?

“I…” Words are lost in the huntress’ tongue. “I don’t belong here. Not with the Watch, not with you… I don’t deserve any of this.”

“How so?”

“Haven’t I lost you already? I’ve failed so much. I don’t want to fail again, I…. I need some time to think.”

“Don’t worry.” The watchwoman chuckled, low and amused. The streak of color in her hair, bright red like blood, stood out so much from the snow and the blacks and greys of her armor, that it just seems as refreshing as she smiles warmly.

“I know it’s been a while. We can talk when you wake up, okay?”


	2. warmth and fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ash awakens with the Watch fighting itself and ignoring the threat they had previously tried to prepare for, but all she wants is time to recover after the attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I've always wanted to continue this with a... a gayer second chapter. 
> 
> So yeah. Here's the gayer second chapter.

"We've lost so many things now. Marching back is not an option."

Ash awakens by the sound of arguing voices, familiar yet not as comforting as she expected with familiar voices.

Waking up in the base was confusing, as she was fully expecting to wake up in the middle of nowhere or not waking up at all, and for a moment she had anticipated a walker ready to strike a killing blow. Despite the relief that she is now safe, almost every inch of her body aches, feeling wounds around her body and bruises in places she didn't knew was even there.

"This is not up for debate! We are staying put, and we will _not_ go back to retry all that once more." Vivian's voice was as imposing as the last time she has heard of it, but Ash can almost hear the fatigue in her voice. She doesn't know how long has she been out, but she's certain they've only recently arrived.

She closes her eyes, knowing it's better to stay out of the conversation for now.

Lian responding is rather jarring, however. "Was I asking permission?" The scion's voice towers over Vivian's, although she sounds rather sick. "We are going. I don't care what you say or how you interpret orders."

"Well, only Skye had that authority, but we don't know where she is now, do we?" Ash can hear her pacing around the room, and she can tell Vivian is angry and stressed, filled with responsibility.

Vivian takes a while before she answers.

"I’m next in line, and I'm following Karne's orders to the letter, and that includes keeping our own men safe if we can't keep that damn alliance with the wildlings.” 

 “You need the lord commander’s permission for that.” Lian sounds like she can explode at Vivian in any second. “While I appreciate your authority, his orders still matter more.”

"There’s no time for that.” Vivian’s footsteps go farther towards the doorway, and Ash hears the door creak open. “Why don't you look after our dear war machine while I take care of things? After all, if she didn't get… _distracted,_ then maybe we would have defended ourselves better."

The door slams close, and for almost a minute or so, it seems like silence has taken over the room, and Ash tucked herself further, unsure when to drop the sleeping act. Footsteps come closer by her bed and Lian suddenly speaks.

"I know you're awake, Ash. You can open your eyes."

She slowly does.

Straightening up turned to be a chore, she realizes, as she attempts to prop herself up and feeling several muscles complain. The view of her room is almost the usual, but the white haze of the outside makes her attempt to remember events before she had lost consciousness.

She focuses on Lian instead.

"I won't stand up if I were you." Lian sits by her bedside, out of her armor and into her red casuals, looking worse for wear. Her crystal rifle is not too far from her hands, and as she looks at the doorway from where Vivian had left, Ash can feel that if it is up to her, she would not stay put.

"I'd rather you not ask questions about what happened, because I won't really have much to say about the attack, either." She raises her rifle, but doesn't put her fingers on the trigger, instead lazily aiming for other objects around the room, restless out of her wits.

"Not really the thing I was going to ask about."

Lian looks like she was going to kill when she glared back at Ash. "Then what?"

"... I'm thirsty. Can I have a drink?"  

 

* * *

 

Lian refused any requests about Ash drinking liquor, and she insisted with making her green tea. It looked strange and smelled strange, since there's nothing else nearby and the drink was made in an awkwardly sized mug, but Ash takes a sip anyway, feeling herself awaken with the warmth.

If Lian had better equipment, she would have thought she could make something better. Heck, Ash thought, it seemed Lian could also use some tea. Instead, Lian stares at the view from the nearby window, watching the stewards and the builders tidy the castles up and ready themselves for an attack.

Ash holds her mug close. "... I’m sorry."

The scion turns to her, confused. "Why are you apologizing?"

"It's my fault," Ash says. The warmth of the tea in the mug made her feel calmer about it, but now that she has time to think about the situation, she realizes that guilt and regret are the only two things she feel about the attack that has happened. "Vivian was right... I should have been more alert—“

"Do not listen to that damn woman.” Lian does not even let Ash explain. She tidies up the tea accessories and seats herself back down Ash’s side, picking up her rifle to busy her hands with. “She does not know what she is saying. While I do not want to die for disobeying orders, I can tell she's a little too happy about being commander after that attack."

 “Does no one really know where Skye went?”

“No one does. Many of our surviving men said the white walkers turned her, but I cannot say for sure. “

Ash takes a sip of her drink. It’s bitter. Lian has oversteeped the green tea. But honestly, she could not blame her, as she looked like she is willing to jump into another chaotic fight if it meant closure for this odd war.

“Do you know who has survived?” Ash grips her mug tightly, feeling what warmth she can manage.

Lian thinks about it for a second. “Some of our men. Most of it is our men… The stewards have salvaged most of our equipment and our men, while half of the rangers are dead in defending and trying to fight back.”

“And the free fo—the wildlings?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Even the ones we have made close friends with?”

“The wolves… I don’t know either. Some of their men have made it out, but since they went in deeper, I do not know if they are still alive. The wolf folk mostly fought back, if I am right—“

"The one called the untamed—“

“Excuse me?”

Ash can feel Lian staring daggers at her, unsure what she is about to say next. “No, she had a crown… the blue paint, crown, braids…” Ash wanted to ask, and she could not help herself. She had to know. She swallows. “The… one who talked to us about the alliance.”

“I…” Confusion sets in further as realization dawned on Lian. She does not answer for a while. “Tyra." She breathes softly, her voice soft, nervous. "You are asking about that wildling with the wolf head."

Ash is rather surprised – _She knows her name? –_ but she nods, slightly scared of what Lian is going to say. She has not really disclosed anything on what has happened during her stay, and she does not want to divulge the details of it, considering the Watch and their opinion on the free folk... But she wants to know if she had made it out alive.

Or if she has died. Either way, it is still closure.

"I-- I don't know what to tell you, Ash." Lian lowers her rifle, leaning it against the nightstand. "We haven't seen her when we fled. We thought she had wandered off or died in the attack, and we were focused on defending our own."

"...We went there to form an alliance, Lian." Ash was stern, almost lecturing Lian. "Weren't they worth defending?"

Lian could not answer.

Ash takes a sip of her tea, still rather scalding. She didn't care as she felt it burn against her tongue, her anger boiling hotter than her drink as she finishes the mug.

"I will not even attempt to defend the actions of the Watch during the attack, because I know you will not listen." "If I had my way, and not the Watch's, then I would have tried, but--"

"-- you didn't give a fuck, that's what."

“Vivian didn’t.” Lian was stern. Her fingers creep closer to the trigger of her rifle. “I would have helped you out, but Tyra is not the Watch’s concern.”

“The watch does not care about wildlings, yeah.” Ash could crush her mug right now in anger she is doing her best to contain. But her injuries are binding her to bed. “We did use to kill them on a daily basis before, didn’t we?”

Once again, Lian doesn’t answer. She stands up with her rifle, and brings Ash’s mug with her to put by the other things. She was silent for a long time, until she swings the door open.

Ash looks up to Lian, who is eyeing Vivian’s office from where they stand, before turning back to the war machine.

"We are to send a raven to the capital about the events, in the hopes they will finally send reinforcements after this accident... but I honestly doubt it. We may have to travel to the capitol ourselves and show them this threat… if the lord commander lets us.”

“We know him,” Ash says, low and calm. She stares at the sheets where her bandaged hands are. “I doubt he will let this slide.”

"Take your medicine, Ash. We will tell you of any updates once you wake." She is gone before Ash could watch her leave.

There is not really much left for her to do. It will take her a while to fully recover, as well as everyone else, and with how Lian and Vivian are arguing, it would also take a while before they can decide what to do next.

However, the walkers were marching towards the wall, and they may not really have much time before their arrival. Ash is not too keen on fighting right now, with so many allies lost and an alliance that would have been great, but overall went to the trash the second they were caught unprepared.

Anger boils down at her chest, disappointment upon herself filling in her veins as she clenches her fist. Pain is crawling up her arm and around her body as she does so, but as the gravity of the attack sinks in, she despises to be sitting here just waiting for the enemy to attack.

She is angry she didn’t make it in time. She is remorseful that if they have acted differently, things would have been different. That maybe they would not be filled with dread on what is to happen next.

_This is my fault._

The milk of the poppy was numbing. It’s good enough for now if she couldn’t drink.

* * *

 

Warm water.

There's warm water around her.

It did not feel too scalding, and she felt more warmth around her as arms enveloped around her body along with the warm spring water. As she attempts to understand what is going on in her surroundings, the water seems to feel less like water and more like soft, inviting warmth of a bed.

Of company.

Of something she truly wanted.

Of someone hauntingly familiar.

But Ash could not name it.

"Were you tired?" A familiar figure is close by. She could not tell what she is doing, but she is dangerously close and she can almost feel her breathe. It's very familiar and inviting, and she finds herself smiling by her presence.

"I was," Ash says, comforted and feeling at home. “Not with you, though.”

"I feel the same.” The voice sounded even more familiar, but she could not put a name on it, much less a face; and Ash struggles to identify her as she speaks, but words are hard to form. "You don't really rest much back in the Watch, do you?"

"I read sometimes," she says. "Sleeping is hard."

The familiar woman laughs, hearty and warm. Ash feels like she belongs here with her forever, like she can listen to her talk. "Maybe you should take some time for yourself more often, then."

"There are things to do, I can't do that." She looks down to avoid any non-existent eye contact, swirling waves around the warmth. “Ever since I have been on the Watch, I have to dedicate my life to the cause, and that is my oath.”

“… I know.” Ash can feel the familiar woman lose some of its warmth, and while she couldn’t put a face on her, she can tell she is rather forlorn. She takes her time, and she can feel a slight warmth crawl on her back, a hand pulling her in for a hug. “I don’t want to go.”

"We can't. We can't." Ash feels like saying yes, but she knows what is going to happen. "I wish we can stay. But I can't... This is not right."

 “Is it? Will it ever be? Ash, you just broke your oath. It doesn’t matter now.” The figure seems to feel more inviting, warmer, and as she scoots closer, she finally seem to take shape, although still rather vaguely.

“Does it?” She can feel the huntress feel more like home, and as she further comes close, and she doesn’t complain as Tyra embraces her tighter and presses a kiss against her lips, the only thing that seems definite in this hazy, chaotic world. She finds herself embracing her closer, letting herself dissolve under her warmth, arms wrapping against her bare skin--

* * *

 

Alarm bells ring around the compound, immediately jolting Ash awake. The haze from her dream remains and as she bolts up, she can feel a headache slowly forming as she struggles to stay upright.

Before she is able to fully understand what is happening, with the sight of her colleagues rushing to the gate, someone bursts right in the infirmary doors and looks straight at her.

"Ser Ash.” The short watchwoman in the long coat tries not to look too panicked.  "Commander Vivian has called you in by the gate.”

She straightens herself up before she acknowledges the young woman, putting on her coat and her armor nearby. “For what?”

The young woman hesitates. “She… she just wants you there immediately. And she’s rather angry.”

The young woman pulls her out of the infirmary before she can properly put on her fur cloak and grabbed a sword, and Ash is dragged straight through a small crowd of watchmen with increasing urgency. Confusion and the haze of the medicine still sits in her consciousness, and for a second she could not comprehend what is happening, until she had been pulled past the crowd and brought in front of someone on the snowy ground--

Tyra?

She looks... hauntingly lifeless. Her skin is encrusted with snow, and she looks almost as stiff as a board on the snowy ground, even if the other watchmen have wrapped her in fur and have attempted to warm her. One of her hand is clutched against her sides, holding down the pain of a wound that has probably frozen over, and the other hand is on her rifle, seemingly frozen in place.

The collective silence says a lot.

She almost seems as good as dead.

"There was rapping on the gate,” the young watchwoman tried to explain, “and since it wasn't a walker we opened the gate and... she just fell straight down--"

Vivian immediately stepped in. "If you are thinking about keeping her, absolutely not. We are throwing her out."

"What in the world are you talking about-- she is an _ally_." Lian stood beside Ash, determined.

"We do not know what we are dealing with about the walkers. What if she turns into a wight when we fail to revive her? Didn't you see what happened on what was left of our men before we have fled?"

"She's still _alive,_ Vivian! You can't just say the wildling's going to die when she's clearly still alive!"

"But at what cost? We have no use for her, and her presence is nothing but danger. Look at her, frost is eating at her skin. Do you think we can still save her when we could have used it for our own men?"

Ash does not care about the resources.

Ash doesn’t really care about the alliance.

The buzz of the medicine still fogs her, but she is too tired, too angry, and too overwhelmed to care. Lian will not fight this one for her just by talking, and she can shoot Vivian if that’s what she wants.

She wanted to see Tyra again.

But not like this.

She steps closer to Tyra, and cradles her closer. The huntress feels like she is the incarnation of every snowstorm she has experienced in a lifetime.

“Ash.” Vivian’s voice was low yet imposing. “No.”

She doesn't answer. She puts a hand by Tyra’s neck, checking for any sign of life. She feels slight warmth, but then again, she could have passed only recently. She is not sure how long has she been out there before her colleagues have opened the gate.

A faint heartbeat.

_Ba-dum._

Almost a second or so passes before the next one.

_Ba-dum._

Ash smiles, embracing her cold body. As she presses herself further, she can feel her warmth radiate ever so slightly, and relief washes over her, and she bites her lip, emotions almost spilling out, and she presses a small kiss against the huntress’s frostbitten self before standing up to carry her with her in the castle.

"Ash, just listen." It is Lian’s turn to attempt to stop her. "Please don’t bring her in. If she revives as a wight, you will be responsible—“ 

"She won’t.” Ash embraces Tyra closer, staring Vivian down as she does so. “She’s alive.”

No one questions her as she brings her in the infirmary.

* * *

 

Her breathing is becoming steady, Ash observes. Tyra's injuries – mostly strange frostbite-- seemed rather recent, which is strange, considering that the attack was weeks, if not months ago. Her legs seem colder than the rest of her, and as she breathes, almost slower by the minute, it seemed as if that if she wait a little longer, she will cease to be.

But she exhales, and inhales. And her skin grows slightly warmer per second. Ash had taken a lot of the fur blankets in the infirmary to warm her up, and she seems to be doing better already, and her breathing is becoming more frequent and normal, watching her chest rise and fall in every inhale and exhale.

She felt her finger twitch, and in a few moments, Tyra shifts. Ash sits by closer, watching her wake, and she does, slowly adjusting to the lights around her.

"Wh-- you're..." As Tyra gets acquainted with the brightness, her vision focuses on Ash. A mixture of emotions show on her face—confusion, doubt, relief – but she still smiles upon the sight of the war machine smiling warmly at her. “You’re… you’re here.”

"Yes." She whispers, breathing against her hand, smiling and laughing to herself as she kisses her thankfully-warmer hands. "I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
